


Chaos

by SkinSlave



Category: Jurassic Park - All Media Types, Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Bondage, Burns, Consensual Non-Consent, Dacryphilia, Duct Tape, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Insertion, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Intense two-chapter TBS reject.Chaos: Consensual Nonconsent with Ian Malcolm and Marilyn Manson(Jurassic Park AU, circa 1997, simulated abduction, tape bondage, analingus, threats, verbal abuse, implied weapon play, dacryphilia, burns, closed-hand impact play, object insertion, watersports)





	1. Ch 1

TV studios are strange places. They bring unlikely people together in parking lots and smoking lounges, and for no reason at all. If Ian Malcolm hadn't been giving a talk on the Ray Bingham Show at the same time that Marilyn Manson was recording a promo down the hall, and if they hadn't wrapped at the same time, and if they hadn't both taken the elevator, none of it would've happened.

The essence of Chaos Theory.

They hit a bar in the middle of the afternoon and talked about everything. Marilyn was easy to talk to. Nothing scared or surprised him. Ian could elaborate at length - a thing he loved to do - and the singer actually listened. He twirled his long, dyed hair and fiddled with his thick rings and listened.

There was something about Ian that Manson couldn't put his finger on. He was boisterous in a way that hid something. After a few beers, it became more obvious that the scientist was watching his mouth as he spoke, leaning forward, casually dropping double entendres.

They made laps around politics and religion and settled on sex. They had much more in common than their black leather jackets and philosophical stances. Even their private preferences meshed together. Ian moved his chair closer and spoke more softly.

General comments turned into discussion, which became negotiation. They shook on it, a risky agreement for the both of them. But there was no telling when, or if, they might come together again.

Satisfied, Ian left the bar. He thought about hailing a cab, but the motel wasn't really that far. He lit a cigarette and started walking. He ran a hand through his wavy dark hair. The sunglasses didn't make sense in the fading light, but he didn't care.

Just as he turned the corner into the motel parking lot, a hand caught his elbow and pulled him against the brick of a retaining wall. Gloved fingers closed around his throat. He swallowed hard.

“Hey, sailor,” a hot baritone voice hissed in his ear. “You look like you need a date.”

Malcolm stuttered, unable to say anything intelligible. The man behind him chuckled. Something hard and round pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Which room?”

“T-Two-ten. L-Look, you can take whatever you want.”

“Oh, I will,” he murmured.

They walked along the wall, staying in the shadow, stiff-legged. The stranger felt slim but he was strong. There was no one to yell for. Even if there were, he'd be risking a bullet hole.

The room was on the back side of the motel. When they stopped at the door, Ian reached for his pants. The man caught his wrist and pulled it away.

“The key is in my front pocket.”

The hand dug until it found the key and passed it to Malcolm. He unlocked the door and stepped into the dark. The door closed behind him and locked.

“Sit down.”

He obeyed, perched on the end of the bed. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't look, if he couldn't give a description, he'd be safe. There were heavy booted steps and the TV came on. His sunglasses were pulled off and dropped onto the dresser.

“You might as well get comfortable. And open your eyes. You look like an idiot.”

The voice was gritty and familiar. Ian looked down at his lap, then up through his eyelashes. Marilyn was draping his jacket over a chair. He grinned and tossed a strip of condoms onto the bed.

Eyes wide, Malcolm made a break for the door. His managed to turn the handle but was stopped by the chain. Marilyn threw his weight against his back, slamming the door shut. He pulled one hand behind his back, lifting it toward his shoulder. Ian gasped in pain.

“You’ve got nowhere to go, sweetheart,” Marilyn purred into his ear. “Now why don't you undress for me so I don't have to hurt you?”

They backed away from the door and he tossed the trembling man onto the bed. Leaning against the dresser, he watched. Malcolm blinked back tears. He was cute. Tall, muscular, driven, and shaking in his boots.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Marilyn grabbed at the waistband of his leather pants. “Do you see that? Dressed like a fucking whore.”

It was true. The half-buttoned shirt over his waxed chest, the leather, the jewelry… He wanted attention. He bit his lip and nodded, just barely. The shame was hot on the back of his neck. He dropped his clothes to the side.

Manson advanced on him and he flinched. There was a sticky tearing sound. Duct tape.

“No, no, no,” Ian insisted, backing up over the bed. “Please, I'll do what you want.”

Marilyn chased him down like a big cat and sat on his chest. He was heavier than he looked. Ian tried to buck him off, shoved with his hands. The singer laughed and gathered his wrists together. The tape was tight. He took a deep breath and a strip of tape sealed his scream inside.

Manson clicked his tongue, tapped the end of Ian's nose with his finger. He unzipped his jeans and worked his cock out. It was half-hard and already more than a handful. He shifted, straddling one shoulder, and used the head to smear Ian's tears across his cheek.

The bound man whimpered, then fell silent and listened. There were voices on the other side of the wall. Marilyn chuckled. He moved back to his chest and pinned his taped wrists to the headboard.

“Go on, tell 'em,” he urged quietly. “Tell 'em you're here. Beg for their help.”

It seemed like a trap, but Ian was desperate. He screamed against the tape. He kicked his legs, tried to tear his hands free. He only managed to make muffled cries, creaking bed springs and a steady rhythm of headboard against thin drywall. He heard the voices again, one close enough to be understood, and quieted.

“God, I know, right? I mean… Probably all night… Well, what can you expect for the price?  We should… Yeah, let's go back to the desk, get a different room…”

There was a shuffling sound, then the softened slamming of a door. He sobbed into the gag. Marilyn's grin broke into a jeering laugh. He clapped his hands slowly.

“Good job! Really, smashing performance. So passionate.” He slid down the bed and began to kiss Ian's neck. “Don't worry, nobody's gonna bother us now.”

Manson's tongue traced circles on skin that he could swear tasted sweeter for his suffering. He rutted against Malcolm's thigh, quickly bringing his cock to full mast. He moaned lewdly. His obvious pleasure only made his cruelty more painful.

“Oh! I have an idea,” he said, lifting on one elbow. “How about this… I'll let you try to suck me off. I'll give you plenty of time. Let's say five minutes. You think you can make me cum?”

Suddenly hopeful, Ian nodded. Marilyn pulled the tape off of his mouth. He coughed for a moment, still nodding, then watched as Manson stood up and stripped.

His body was lean, covered in pink scars. He snatched a condom from the strip on the bed, tore it open and rolled it on. Carefully, Ian slid onto the floor and approached.

“Uh-uh, hold on,” Manson chided, rolling a second condom over the first. “Can't be too careful, right?”

Their dark eyes met. One pair was smug and self-satisfied. The other glazed in disappointment.

“Can… Can I at least use my hands too?”

“Hmm,” Marilyn mused. “I don't see why not. But if you try to cheat, I'll break ‘em. And if I feel your teeth, I'm gonna punch ‘em out of your head. Understood?”

Ian nodded and moved slowly to kneel in place. He stared at the cock that bobbed in front of him.

“Clock's ticking.”

With a humiliated whine, Malcolm took the latex-covered length into his mouth. He cringed at the taste but tried very hard to add suction, hollowing his cheeks. He gripped the base with his bound hand, maneuvering awkwardly to reach his balls as well.

A loud, exaggerated yawn filled the room. He tried not to panic. He traded his mouth for his hands, squeezing and massaging. Marilyn's cock seemed so far away. But his balls were naked. Ian bent and wrapped his tongue around one, sucking it gently into his mouth.

Manson's hand found the back of his head and pushed farther. Even though the grip on his length was firm, he'd never cum with the sensation dulled by the double-bag. Certainly not by the five-minute mark. He wondered how far Malcolm would go to save himself.

He lifted one leg, perching his foot on the edge of the bed, to drive the hint home. A hesitant tongue tripped over his sensitive skin, working from the base of his balls to his ass. He bit back a sigh but Ian must have heard it. He ducked under and adjusted his stance before diving in.

Manson's eyes rolled back. The slick of the mouth over his sensitive flesh made his cock throb. The duct taped hands reached forward to resume their stroke. He put one hand on the dresser to steady himself.

“Is that all you got?” he barked.

Ian whimpered, pressing his tongue deeper. He was messy, drooling down his chin, desperate to please. It was so utterly humiliating. He worked Marilyn's ass with his lips, humming for vibration.

“Sounds like you're enjoying yourself, sweetheart.” Manson was trying to sound steady, unaffected, but there was a tremor in his voice. “You eat a lot of assholes?”

The response was a gagging sob that put him on the home stretch. His pleasure settled low, building with every sloppy kiss and frantic tug. His eyes were closed. Between shallow breaths, he kept talking. It was a performance. The whole thing was theater. But he took his role seriously.

“This is your fault, you know. You thought you could be a little cock tease and nothing would happen?” He paused to groan, continued in stacatto grunts: “You fucking... owe me... whore... That's it… lick that hole… fucking… fuck…”

Manson's obscenity faded as his climax took over. He tensed, silent for a moment before erupting in a rough moan. Ian could feel the muscle under his tongue throbbing in time with the cock between his hands. He didn't dare stop. The jerking and sighing slowed. He sat down and rubbed his eyes, panting in relief.

Marilyn pushed his long, black hair out of his face. He stood up straight, just a little wobbly. He dropped the condoms in the trash. Then he crossed to the nightstand and picked up the clock.

“Whaddaya know… Just in time.” He pointed at the man on the floor. “Don't move. You need a towel.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Malcolm heard the water running. He wiped his mouth but only succeeded in spreading slimy spit across his hands. He looked down at them, shaking from anxiety and shame. A white hand towel landed on his lap.

“Quit smearing it around. You're disgusting.”

Manson sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He lit a cigarette he'd no doubt taken from Ian's coat. He watched the bronzed brunette struggle to dry himself off and stand. Ian approached awkwardly, holding his bound wrists out.

“Sit your ass down,” Marilyn laughed, blowing smoke into his face.

“But… I don't understand. I did what you wanted.”

“Yeah, a piss-poor job of it. At least you got the easy one out of the the way.”

Ian slowly sat on the edge of the bed. He lowered his head. Manson nudged him with his foot.

“Aww, did you think I was gonna let you go?” he simpered. “I never said that. You'd have to be fucking stupid to think I'd pass on this opportunity. Chaos Theory, right? A butterfly flaps its wings and I end up in your hotel room.”

He leaned forward, grabbed Malcolm by the wrists and hauled him over the mattress. His shadowed eyes were fierce. He took a slow drag, leaving a lipstick smudge on the cigarette filter. His voice was low.

“I'm gonna show you what chaos really is.”


	2. Ch 2

Stretched out on the bed, he tried to calm his breath. Marilyn had been talking for a good five minutes and he had no idea what was said. He twisted his hands, but the tape on his wrists held tight.

The singer, lanky and deceptively strong, tapped the ash from his stolen cigarette into the tray balanced on Ian's stomach. He asked a question. Malcolm recognized the lilt and his breath hitched. He didn't know how to respond.

“Have you been listening to me at all?” Marilyn scoffed at his panicked expression. “Fucking useless.”

He reached for the duct tape and slowly pulled the end free. He kept his eye on Ian, trying not to smile at his distress. A small piece tore away loudly.

“This is just to help you concentrate,” he purred, pressing the strip over his mouth. “It's important that you listen to me. I'm not gonna fucking repeat myself all night.”

Manson lit another cigarette and started a tangential story about a bandmate with no discernable point. He described interactions with a roadie in much more detail than necessary. Ian caught the words, “right leg up,” but not fast enough.

Before he could react, Marilyn brought the cherry of the cigarette down on the ridge of his hip. Ian arched, squealed, tried to roll away from the pain. A broad hand on his pelvis held him in place. After a long moment, the cigarette was pulled away and deposited in the teetering ashtray.

“The fuck did I say? Pay attention.”

Through a haze his own heavy breaths, Malcolm tried to listen closely as the monologue continued. Embedded in the rambling stories were instructions: leg up, hands open, eyes closed, speak. Sometimes he caught them immediately. Still, again and again, he received another small, circular burn across his hips. The exercise only ended when the pack was empty.

Marilyn dragged his fingers through the tears that poured from Ian's dark eyes. He dipped them into his painted mouth. They were as sweet as they sounded. His cock had long been hard from watching and listening. Tasting made it jump.

“Legs up,” he growled, tossing the ashtray and empty cigarette pack on the nightstand. “Knees on your chest.”

Ian's whine became a yelp as Manson pulled his folded body to the center of the bed. He squeezed his eyes tight. There was a crinkling sound as a condom was torn open. Then a moment of silence. And the creak of the mattress as Marilyn moved into position.

The spit he slicked over both of them was cold comfort. He pressed his cock against Malcolm's tight entrance and pushed. He was mercifully slow despite his urge to just tear through. The heat and friction were delicious. More spit, more gentle coaxing, and he was seated completely.

Ian was quiet, breathing quick and shallow. His hands over his head opened and closed, looking for something to anchor himself. His eyes were half-open, fixed on the tattooed rock god above him.

“Don't think I haven't noticed this,” Marilyn  snipped, giving his length a light slap. “You've been hard as a rock since you got your tongue in my ass.”

He cried against the tape. He wanted to ignore the heat, the truth, how much he loved the abuse. The cock inside of him began to move. Deep thrusts knocked the air out of him and the stinging pain dragged it back in. He yelped and whined, struggling to relax.

“There you go,” Manson murmured, cloyingly sweet. “This is why you dress like a slut, isn't it? This is why you throw yourself at men in bars. You need a man to use this tight little hole. Is that it?”

Ian shook his head and squirmed. His legs dropped, splayed wide, and he bucked. His hands searched for the headboard and yanked. Marilyn leaned hard on him, his flesh rubbing the raw cigarette burns. He tangled his fingers in that wavy dark hair, elbow on Malcolm's shoulder to help hold him still.

He kissed and mouthed at the duct tape gag, spreading his lipstick across it. His thrusts were rough and sloppy. The man under him moaned as he slid over his sweet spot. He shook his long hair out of his face and growled through gritted teeth.

“Such a sweet little bitch… I love the way you fight back…”

Ian was beside himself, struggling to keep his eyes open. His pleasure, lit by the pain, was grinding through his body. Marilyn's shifting weight worked his cock. His voice rose as he felt his climax coming.

Then he was empty, the weight gone. Manson was kneeling over him, panting, his bobbing cock betraying that he'd been on the edge too. He smirked at the impotent, muffled begging that came from the bound man. The condom fell into the trash.

“Greedy, greedy,” he chuckled, clicking his tongue. “You didn't think I was gonna let you cum on this cock, did you? Fucking pathetic.”

He flicked his index finger against each of Ian's balls and watched him wince. He was incredibly pretty, tear-stained and vulnerable. There was a puddle of precum under his navel. He'd been so close… poor baby. Marilyn dragged his fingers through the mess and rubbed it over Ian's nipples.

“Get up.”

Shaking, Malcolm managed to stand. He was delightfully sore. His fingers were starting to go numb. His knees didn't want to hold him. His captor pulled and pushed him until he was flat against the wall next to the dresser. He tore the duct tape gag away.

Marilyn sighed deeply, an almost feminine sound. He wrapped his arms around Ian's shoulders, toyed with the hair at the back of his neck. His lips pursed, full and formerly deep red. He pressed them to Malcolm's cheek, then his neck, mouthing at it like a drunken prom date.

“Do you want to get fucked?” he purred. “Rough and deep until I cum?”

Ian sucked in a breath and nodded. The nod wasn't good enough. Marilyn's closed fist caught him in the ribs, just hard enough to leave a bruise. He groaned and bent at the waist, leaning into the singer's arms.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Malcolm choked, barely audible.

Another punch, lower and softer but still painful. He sobbed, new tears that were less theatrical than before. Sniffing, he tried to move his arms, to block another attack. Marilyn drug his teeth over his earlobe.

“Not gonna ask again, babe.”

“Yes-sir-I-do,” he choked out, then, louder, “I do want to get fucked, sir. Please.”

Manson didn't want to let him go. His trembling body was like a drug. From his glistening eyes to his cock, still hard between them, he was a delicacy. A rare kind of man. But he would expect more and Marilyn was not one to disappoint.

“What will you do for it, I wonder?”

He picked up the last of the condoms, held it up at eye level. His smirk spread across his face into a toothy grin. He raised what would've been his eyebrows and whistled as though calling a dog. Malcolm followed, cradling his ribs, to the door. Without a hint of shame, Manson opened the door wide and threw the condom into the parking lot.

“Fetch.”

Ian's eyes bulged. He couldn't go outside, completely naked, duct taped and erect. What if someone saw him? What if they called the police? What would the headlines say?

Marilyn snapped his fingers impatiently. With a strangled whine, the bound man covered his cock with his hands and leaned out, looking around for bystanders. The lot was empty, quiet.

He ran across the pavement, bare feet slapping. The condom wrapper was dark. Even though he'd seen it land, he had to search to find it again. He bent to retrieve it, trying - and failing - to hide his member at the same time.

He ran back inside and the door closed and locked again. Blinking back tears of embarrassment, he presented the condom. Manson took it and gestured toward the bed.

With a little poking and prodding, Malcolm was soon in position: on his back across the foot of the bed, knees open. Marilyn disappeared for a moment. When he came back into view, he was holding the condom, a bottle of lubricant and a black metal flashlight. He tossed the lube onto the bed and rolled the condom over the light's handle.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he said, handing the makeshift dildo over. “I'd lube it up good. It's gotta be… what… 2 inches wide? And it's not gonna give. That'll be a challenge, even for a cockwhore like you.”

Ian moaned, struggling to insert it but smart enough not to refuse. The lube helped and Manson was patient, standing nearby, stroking. Once the object had slid as far as it was going to go, Malcolm's eyes fluttered closed. He focused on adjusting to the cold steel.

A loud scrape brought him back to the room. The curtains of the window he faced were wide open. He was on display. The singer had stepped to the side.

“I'll just stand over here. Some of us don't want to be seen by just anyone.” He chuckled at Ian's mumbled objection. “This is the deal. You get fucked until I cum. So get to it. You stop, I stop. So I recommend a steady pace.”

Malcolm reached around himself, hands still taped, and began to move the flashlight. It was hard and uncomfortable. But the stretch was amazing. He hummed and looked at the singer, who was braced against the wall, thrusting into his fist.

The room went quiet but for the static on the TV and the panting and soft moans of the men. They were synchronized. But Marilyn intended to cum quickly. He lost himself in the sight in front of him. Every plunge of the light into Ian's tight heat brought him closer and closer.

Finally, Manson let go, groaning loudly. He spilled stream after stream on the ugly blue carpet. He was beautiful. His muscles jerked under his taut skin. He licked his lips, let his hair fall forward. As Ian watched, he felt his own finish coming. He brought his knees to his chest, angled the toy to hit the right spot.

“Stop,” Marilyn panted, pushing his hair back. “Take it out.”

“What?” The word fell out before he could think. Afraid of punishment, Malcolm obeyed quickly and attempted to smooth it over. “Yes, sir.”

It took a few minutes for Manson to recover. He'd been on the edge so many times that he felt like his brain had shot out along with a gallon of cum. He was pleased to see that his plaything hadn't moved.

“Come on.”

Ian stood carefully, even more sore than before, and followed to the bathroom. Marilyn leaned against the sink and gestured toward the bathtub. He got in and knelt, assuming that was the desired position.

“Good boy,” Manson said fondly, touching his cheek. “Now you can cum. Go ahead.”

It seemed too good to be true. But Malcolm had been hard for so long that he ached. He gathered some excess lube from his ass, gripped his cock and grabbed the edge of the tub for balance. His hand was quick and tight.

As he neared the edge, he felt the hard, round object against the side of his head. He closed his eyes, imagined what the gun might look like. A wet warmth spread across his chest. Marilyn had moved closer and was pissing on his body. After everything, he was nothing more than an object to be used. It was dehumanizing, disgusting, and exactly what he needed.

With a series of weak, rising moans, he came. His release dripped over his knuckles and onto the floor of the tub. The room went red and grey. He slumped forward and an arm ran across his chest to keep him from hitting the faucet. He felt Manson kneel down and rub his back. Slowly, the world came into focus and he could breathe again.

“You’re so beautiful,” Marilyn whispered tenderly, dropping the lipstick “gun” onto the tile. “Perfect, beautiful boy. What do you need?”

Ian turned toward him and buried his face in his pale, scarred chest. He sobbed dry, all cried out. Manson held him. He stroked his hair while he came down. The bottom would have fallen out if not for those broad hands. He dipped low, then came back enough to raise his head.

“Was that ok? Are you ok? What do you need?”

He cleared his throat and laughed. He was hoarse. His voice was almost as gritty and deep as Marilyn's.

“I need a shower before round two.”


End file.
